1

THE HEIST

Infiltrating the FBI is a lot more difficult than you might think.

The seventh-floor waiting room in the New York field office is one I’m intimately familiar with. There are no windows to penetrate from the outside and no air vents big enough to squeeze through, which means it’s impossible to access this floor unless security clears you first. The fifty-something woman at the desk seems nice, what with the glasses perched on the end of her nose and the fresh flower pinned to her chiffon blouse, but she’d shiv you sooner than let you through the door.

I know this because in addition to the gun she carries, Cheryl also has a letter opener that doubles as a throwing knife strapped to her upper thigh.

And I know that because I’m the one who gave it to her.

“Hey, Penelope,” Cheryl says with a smile that welcomes me and warns me not to make any sudden movements at the same time. “It’s lovely to have you visit us today.”

Loosely translated, this means: I know you’re a thief, and I’m packing. What do you want?

“I’m so happy to be here,” I reply. My own smile stretches wide and full of meaning. “How are the kids? And Dan?”

In other words: I’m not scared of you. Also, I know where you live.

“They’re good, they’re good. Dan got that promotion he was after, so that’s been pretty nice for us. We finally bought that gun safe we’ve been eyeing.”

Meaning: We keep extra weapons at home. Don’t even think about it.

“Safety is so important,” I agree.

“Do you want me to let Grant know you’re here, hon?”

“If you don’t mind. He’s not expecting me.”

“Oh, how lovely,” she says. You’d think, from the way she beams at me, that she means it this time. She doesn’t. “Is it a surprise lunch date?”

It’s a surprise something, that’s for sure. But all I do is offer her a bland look and say, “In a manner of speaking.”

“I’ll buzz him.”

And with that, I’m in as far as I’m going to get on my own. Only once in my life have I made it past Cheryl’s desk, and that was in handcuffs. It’s not an experience I’m keen on repeating.

To pass the time until my husband’s arrival, I settle into one of the austere metal chairs set against an even more austere white wall and struggle to suppress my air of expectation. A buzz of adrenaline is common before a big job, and since it’s been more than six months since I’ve so much as looked at a lock the wrong way, my expectations and my buzz are flying.

The fact that things are progressing exactly as planned only helps my high. I haven’t always loved the FBI—what with their spying on my every move and the arrest of my father earlier this year—but I can always count on their love of protocol.

To Cheryl’s credit, she doesn’t make excuses as the minutes tick by and there’s no sign of my husband. To my credit, I don’t let my anxiety at his delay show. There’s a small window of opportunity for this particular job, and I need him to appear before Riker—my best friend and coconspirator—gets things started down below. In about five more minutes, I’m going to have to do something drastic (like fake a seizure) to get Grant out here.

Fortunately, my acting skills aren’t put to the test. A shadow appears in the doorway before I hear the impressively faint sound of footsteps, and I know it must be Grant. No one moves as silently—or is as deadly—as my husband.

“You’re here!” I cry. All six feet two inches of him fill the room—and my heart. Even considering what I’m about to do, I’m honestly happy to see him. He didn’t come home last night until the wee hours of the morning, and he left for work while I was in the shower—a schedule that’s been on repeat for much longer than I like. The occasional late night is par for the course when you’re married to an FBI agent, but tacit avoidance has become our default mode as of late.

In any other marriage, such a thing might indicate waning sexual interest or a general lack of communication. In our marriage, it means one of us thinks the other has started stealing again.

I’ll let you guess who.

Grant accepts my proffered hug warily, one eye on the door, the other on his watch. I’m tempted to tell him it’s exactly 2:13 in the afternoon, give or take thirty seconds, but that might give too much away. I only pay such close attention to the passing of time when I’m up to no good—a fact he knows from personal experience. I want to throw him off guard, not set him on high alert.

“My sweet darling, how I’ve missed you!” I say instead, dialing my beaming smile up to twelve. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to wrap my arms around you all day.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

“That’s unfair.” I feign outrage with a flick of my ponytail, the more-blond-than-red hair pulled back in the lifelong style I can’t seem to shake. As my role in the breaking and entering circuit used to involve squeezing into tight spaces, I grew accustomed to minimizing the amount of space I took up—hair included. Nothing is more disastrous than squeezing yourself inside an air conditioning duct only to have your hair sucked into the blades. “Can’t I be happy to see you?”

“You could be, but you’re not.”

I fake a pout. “How can you tell?”

“For starters? Not only have you never called me my sweet anything before, but your skin is flushed, and your pupils are dilated. What are you up to, Penelope Blue?”

I bite back a laugh. His air of distrust is offset by the familiar playful rhyme, a singsong form of address he’s used since the day we first met. It’s always been one of my favorite sounds—that combination of suspicion and adoration in Grant’s voice. I like to think it’s how he shows his love.

“I’m not up to anything.” At least, I’m not up to anything yet. The action isn’t set to start until 2:20, which means I’ve got about five more minutes to keep his attention focused by being suspiciously charming and wifely. “Maybe I’m flushed because I’m happy to see you. Did you ever think about that?”

“Once. Maybe twice. Then I learned better.”

His eyes narrow as he continues assessing me from top to bottom. I attempt to keep my breathing mostly even and my posture just a little too relaxed—I want him to be suspicious, but I don’t want him to catch on that I want him to be suspicious. It’s harder than it seems under his special brand of scrutiny. Grant is very good at his job.

He’s so good at it, in fact, that his face doesn’t register even a flicker of surprise when he reaches my feet and catches a glimpse of my footwear. Normally, I’m all about functional flats and comfort soles, but this is a special occasion. Today, I’ve paired my black skinny jeans with bright-red peep-toe heels that threaten to topple me with every step.

The shoes were a gift from Grant—a gift and a reminder, and a large part of the reason I’m here today. It’s a thing with him, a tradition of sorts, to give double-edged presents. The habit goes all the way back to our early courtship, where each date could end with an arrest as easily as a kiss. Instead of confronting me with his suspicions like a normal man, Grant likes to toy with me to see if I’ll break.

I’m on to you, Penelope Blue, he all but said with a few shiny pieces of patent leather. The Peep-Toe Prowler better not strike again.

Which is totally unfair, by the way. Even if I was the burglar currently working her way through a string of Upper East Side homes—which, for the record, I’m not—I wouldn’t wear heels while I did it. I prefer to make my getaways quick and painless, thank you very much.

“Well? Am I a threat to national security?” I ask when it appears he’s finished his assessment. I even give my foot a sassy kick for good measure, but I elicit no response and almost lose my shoe in the process. “Do you want to place me in one of the interrogation rooms until you get the all clear? I’m partial to the one Simon uses. Such fond memories I have of being held there against my will.”

Grant sighs, his exasperation causing a crease to form down the middle of his forehead. I resist the urge to smooth it away. Don’t get me wrong—my husband is and always has been devastatingly handsome, and no amount of annoyance can change that. His hair is the blondish-brown you typically find on frat boys and surfer dudes, and he has these huge brown eyes that exude sleepy innocence and puppy-dog friendliness. It’s the perfect look for lulling unsuspecting cat burglars into falling in love and spilling their secrets.

“This better not be one of your tricks, Penelope.”

“It’s not!” I lie.

“You said you were having lunch with your grandmother today.”

“She had to cancel,” I lie again. “I never see you anymore, that’s all.” I run my finger up the line of his suit jacket. It’s loose and crumpled, which says a lot about his current state of mind. He usually wears his suits like they’re made of neoprene. “You’ve been spending all your free time at work lately, and even when you come home, it’s like you’re not there. I miss you.”

“Stop batting your eyes at me. I’m not falling for it.”

“I’m blinking. You want me to stop blinking?”

“I want you to tell me why you’re really here.”

“My profound love for you isn’t good enough? Thanks a lot.”

His lips twitch in amusement, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a smile. When Grant really smiles, he does it with his whole face. His eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that sets my heart skittering and makes me wonder what I did to deserve such a gorgeous, strapping beast of a man in my life.

“I mean it.” He places his hands heavily on my shoulders. “I’m in the middle of something at the moment. There’s been a new development in the case I’m working.”

Aha. Now we’re getting closer to something interesting. By new development, I can only assume he’s talking about the ruby bracelet that went missing from one of New York’s elite inner circles last night. This makes half a dozen pieces in all, each one worth more than the last. They’re saying this one clocks in at over a million bucks.

I almost feel sorry for Grant having to head up this investigation. With such high-profile victims as the CEO of a chain of hospitals and an energy tycoon known to contribute in presidential campaigns, he must feel the pressure to find the culprit before any more rich people are outraged.

But the thief—again, not me—is a good one. According to the newspapers, there have only been two clues worth note. The first is a bath mat bearing the imprint of a woman’s size seven shoe. The other is a maid who claims to have seen a pair of peep-toes poking out from under a curtain in the same room where a diamond watch later went missing. It’s not much to go on, but I assume Grant has dozens of theories and facts he’s not sharing with the world.

Theories and facts that appear to be pointing to yours truly.

“What kind of development?” I ask.

“Nice try. I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I’m not that distracted.” He squeezes my shoulders again, and there’s a finality to it that lingers long after the pressure is gone. “I’m sorry, love. I appreciate you coming all this way to see me, but I need to get back. I’ll have Cheryl show you out.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” And not only because I need to keep him distracted for a few minutes longer. The truth is, I don’t like feeling shut out of his life—of our life.

But all he does is sigh in frustration. “Why don’t you go home and enjoy the rest of your day? Aren’t you supposed to be finishing that novel for your book club?”

“I tried, but it was about zombies. It gave me nightmares.”

“What about your plans to overhaul the garden?”

“Too many bugs.” I give a delicate shudder. “They also give me nightmares.”

“There’s always that volunteer gig at the rare books room you were talking about…”

I let him trail off, refusing to pick up the bait. Of all the book clubs and garden plans and volunteer opportunities Grant keeps dangling in front of me, that one is by far the most appealing. I’ve always loved the New York Library, and that room, in particular, has personal meaning for me. But the larger issue isn’t about how I spend my leisure time—it’s about how he doesn’t trust me to find a productive way to fill it. To him, the succession of long, empty days I’ve faced since renouncing my life of crime is nothing more than an opportunity to get in trouble.

It’s sweet that he’s so concerned for my well-being and all, but it’s almost enough to make me want to give the real Peep-Toe Prowler a run for her money.

“You’re such a man sometimes,” I say with a tsk of real annoyance. “You just have a thing for the sexy librarian look.”

He tilts his head, playing along. Our voices are low to prevent Cheryl from overhearing, but there’s no mistaking his interest. “Hmm. Maybe I do, now that you mention it. A pair of glasses here, a tight skirt there…”

Oh, he’s good. A tight skirt and its immediate removal does have its appeal. I can feel myself faltering already. “I am not volunteering at a library just so you can get off on your weird, repressed fantasies,” I say.

My insult, neatly aimed, goes wide. He laughs. “Nice try, but there’s nothing repressed about the things I’d like to do to you.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, though not very convincingly. I happen to adore that particular dark-eyed stare of his. “I’ll have you know I’m more than a pair of legs.”

“True. But you have to admit they’re very nice legs.”

Sure. Now he looks, his gaze intense as it moves from my toes along every curve of my calves and thighs. Dammit. That’s not what the shoes are there for. I put them on this morning to take the lead in the cat-and-mouse game of our marriage, not to get sidetracked by seduction.

“Stop it,” I warn, “or you’re not getting anywhere near these legs again.”

His smile only curves wider. “Oh, really? Is that a threat…or would you rather call it a dare?”

“Let’s call it a promise.”

“Excellent. A promise.” His voice comes out in a low rumble as he takes a predatory step toward me. He’s ostensibly letting a woman in a black suit and oversized handbag by, but I know better. Grant is an excellent tactician, and he’s using his environment to manipulate the scene.

And me. Oh, how he loves to manipulate me, often in the best of ways.

“In fact,” he continues, “I promise to do everything in my power to appreciate your legs to the fullest.”

No, no, no. I refuse to be swayed by his hot, raking glances or the lulling heat of his proximity. Playing Grant’s games—however much a thoroughly enjoyable staple of our marriage they may be—is not on the menu today, and none of the pistons firing between my thighs will change my mind.

I’m going to be strong. I’m going to prove my innocence. I’m going to show this man what I think about his underhanded tactics…by trying a few underhanded tactics of my own.

I’m not feeling particularly strong or innocent as he edges even closer with a determined gleam in his eye, so it’s for the best that we’re hit with a sudden blast of toxic air. My eyes sting and my lungs recoil and all thoughts of seduction reach an abrupt end.

Good old Riker. His timing hasn’t always been impeccable, but he’s managed it this go-around. That smell means one thing and one thing only.

It’s showtime.

* * *

The smell of Liquid Evacuation (patent not pending) is difficult to nail down, but most people who encounter it say it smells like a deadly cocktail of a dozen different chemicals—a sulfurous tang you do not want anywhere near your lungs.

In reality, it’s perfectly harmless…much like the group of thieves currently breaking into the FBI to have a look around.

The chemical made its way into the building thanks to the woman who slipped past on her way to Cheryl just moments ago. Riker planted a few drops in her bag while she snagged her daily coffee from the cart in front of the building. With a delayed reaction of about ten minutes, the timing of the chemical’s release was perfectly planned to allow her inside and past all security checkpoints before it hit.

Grant smells it as quickly as I do. His first instinct, as always, is protective, and he propels me to the far side of the room so fast, I barely have time to register what’s happening. His hand presses my head against his chest, where I feel his heartbeat pick up and his muscles coil in preparation to hoist me over his shoulder and carry me to safety, fireman-style.

My own body experiences something akin to a swoon. Oh, how I love this man. There’s so much nobility in him, it scares me sometimes.

His next instinct isn’t so sweet. It takes two seconds for the scent to register and two more for him to sift through his memories until he recalls where he’s come across it before. His arms drop as suddenly as they came up.

“Oh, no. Oh, hell no. That better not be what I think it is.”

“What do you think it is?” I ask all-too-innocently. “Is it anthrax?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anthrax doesn’t have a scent. That smells an awful lot like—”

Three agents burst through the back door, cutting Grant’s sentence short. Not that I need to hear it to know what he’s thinking. The way he looks at me—as if he’d like to tie me to the metal chair so I can’t escape—says it all.

You did this. You’re attacking the FBI.

Yes. Yes, I am, sweet husband. Deal with it.

“Emerson, there you are. We’ve shut down the ventilation system.” The largest of the agents is clearly in charge, and he has the enormously wide chest to prove it. He looks like a Saint Bernard carrying a cask of ale around its neck. “We’re isolating the floor and evacuating the rest of the building. Cheryl, make sure no one comes off those elevators.”

He stops, as if only now noticing the diminutive woman Grant is inches away from murdering with his bare hands. “Is she with you?”

The she in question schools her features to give nothing away. For all this man knows, I’m nothing more than an innocent bystander. A victim of bad timing. A poor, put-upon wife.

Hey, stranger things have happened.

“Don’t evacuate.” Grant’s voice is tightly controlled, a slice of cold, hard steel coming to the surface. “Don’t isolate the floor. Don’t shut down the elevators.”

“But they’re saying it could be something lethal—”

He doesn’t even blink. “Call it off, and call it off now.”

“I don’t think we can ignore—”

“I’m not asking you to think. I’m asking you to call it off. Anything that’s standard protocol, any action we’d normally take. Don’t do it.” Grant turns to me, his dark eyes flashing. “And make sure you get those ventilation fans back on as fast as possible. We don’t want anyone taking advantage of the downtime to sneak inside the ducts.”

Please. As if FBI vents are big enough for that. Even the lowest-level thieves know they’re impossible to navigate.

“I think the smell is already starting to go away,” I point out—which, indeed, it is. Jordan, our chemist and explosives expert, worked out a new formula recently. This one has a delay activation of ten minutes, an active smell for half that, and then all trace of it disappears. It’s a toxic smokescreen. Poof and then it’s gone. “Maybe someone had gasoline on their clothes. That happened at a movie theater I went to once, in Jersey. Some lady spilled gas all over herself at the pump and had no idea she was carrying it around on her. We thought the entire place was going to blow.”

Agent Barrel Chest listens to my story with interest, taking me for the innocent that I’m pretending to be. Grant, however, grips me by the elbow, the clasp tight enough to warn me what thin ice I’m on.

The other agents sniff tentatively, noticing for themselves that the air is starting to clear.

“See?” I say. “It must have been an accident. Someone probably stepped in a weird puddle.”

“It does seem unlikely…”

“I wonder if an air conditioning unit went out…”

“They’re not reporting anything on the other floors…”

One by one, the agents begin doubting their senses. Their shoulders relax, and their guards lower inch by inch. Only Grant remains unconvinced, refusing to let go of my arm—bless his suspicious heart.

“Not good enough,” he says. “I want to know if anyone’s had any unusual visitors or received unexpected deliveries today.” He glowers at me. “Also, the names and IDs of all independent contractors we’ve hired in the past three months. No job is too big or small—even some guy filling in for the window-washing staff. Got it? I’m especially interested in males between the ages of twenty-five and fifty, about five-eight, nondescript in every regard.”

That would be Oz, the fourth member of our team. A master of disguise, he can sneak in anywhere undetected.

Well, anywhere except this building. We might be good, but we’re not that good.

“There’s no need,” I tell Grant truthfully—knowing he won’t believe me and loving the irony of it all. “He’s not here.”

Agent Barrel Chest perks up at that, but Grant draws me a few paces out of his range of hearing. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t open your mouth again.”

“But I have to breathe!”

“Not for much longer.”

“Oh, dear. This is because I called you my sweet darling, isn’t it?”

The stifled choke of his rage-fueled laughter is a sound I won’t soon forget. It’s like a werewolf being forced to swallow his howl and finding he rather likes the taste.

“Uh, Emerson?” Cheryl coughs discreetly, intervening before Grant can respond.

“Yes?”

“When you say you want to know about visitors, are you counting Blackrock?”

His head swivels in her direction so fast, it leaves me dizzy. “Blackrock is here? Now?”

She scans her computer before nodding. “Sterling had a meeting set up with him at two. I haven’t checked him out yet, so I assume they’re still back there. Do you want me to notify him?”

I could kiss Cheryl for her perfect timing, and I make a mental note to get her an even deadlier concealed weapon for next Christmas. Maybe a lipstick grenade or something.

“Goddammit!” Grant swears. “So that’s what this is. Make sure Simon has backup, and get a man posted at every exit. Blackrock doesn’t leave until I personally search him, got it?”

“Do you know what’s going on?” Agent Barrel Chest asks as he steps forward, ready to set his impressive physique into action. “Who’s Blackrock?”

“I don’t know what’s happening yet, but I’m going to find out,” Grant says. He’s careful to ignore the second half of the question, but I don’t mind, because I already know the answer. Blackrock is the code name for Warren Blue, an infamous thief-turned-FBI-informant who’s done miraculous things in helping my husband and his partner, Simon Sterling, put bad guys behind bars.

He’s also my father, the man who taught me everything I know about breaking into highly secured government facilities. So you can imagine Grant’s concern.

“As for you…” Grant finds himself at a loss, gazing around the lobby for the best place to stash me while he tends to his duties. From the look on his face, I get the feeling he’d like to knock me unconscious with a potted ficus, but that’s frowned upon, even by the feds.

“Why don’t I stay here?” I motion to the metal chair, knowing the mere fact that I’m suggesting it will force him to reject the idea out of hand. “Then I won’t be in your way while you go about your business. It sounds super important.”

“Oh no,” he says, distracted enough to take the bait. “You’re not going anywhere.” He yanks me closer, holding me against the hard wall of his side. When the other agents look at him curiously, he adds a lackluster, “I want to be able to keep an eye on her until we know the danger is passed.”

“Maybe you could leave me under Cheryl’s protection,” I suggest.

Cheryl lifts her hands. “No thanks. I’m not going anywhere near this one.”

“I don’t mind keeping an eye on her,” Agent Barrel Chest says, but I can tell that option doesn’t weigh much in Grant’s opinion. There’s no telling what I might get his coworker to do with a few smiles. Federal agents I’m not married to find me incredibly charming.

Time is ticking by, and Grant still has no idea what I’m up to, so he pulls me with him as he strides out of the room. “Fine. I guess you’ll have to stay with me. Don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t you dare try anything. Understand?”

“Yes, dear,” I say meekly. I can’t even pretend to be outraged, because I’m too busy keeping the smile from my face. In a few short steps, I’ve now breached the hallowed walls of the FBI—and with nary a handcuff in sight.

Of course, being manacled to Grant’s side isn’t conducive to finishing the job, especially since he doesn’t slow down as he moves through the maze of hallways to the interview room where my father is being held.

We’re halfway down a particularly gray corridor when Simon appears. A permanent frown carves into his face, his customary tie pulled so tight, it’s a wonder his head doesn’t pop and send gallons of shellac-like hair product flying. His frown only deepens when he spots me. Despite the fact that my father’s capture has done great things for his career, Simon isn’t much of a Penelope Blue fan.

“What are you doing?” Grant demands. “Why aren’t you with Warren?”

“He’s waiting for me in the interview room. I heard there was a breach?”

“Get back there immediately—and keep an eye out for anyone who might be Oz.”

Simon turns to me and levels a knowing glare. “What did she do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Grant says grimly.

“Want me to beat it out of her?”

There’s a long enough pause to cause me momentary concern. I mean, I know Grant and I have our problems, but there’s a line between tricking a spouse and torturing one. It’s thin, but it’s there.

“Can I get a rain check on that?” Grant asks, his eyes fixed on me. “I’d like to keep the option open.”

“Why, Grant Emerson, I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.” I nod back down the hallway. “I’ll make this easy on both of you and go home. I know the way out.”

“No!” both men yell at once. Grant releases a frustrated groan. “We don’t have time for this. Simon, get back to Warren, and don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll take Penelope—”

He glances at the door we’ve stopped outside, which I now notice has his name engraved on a metal panel. My heart picks up speed as I realize it’s his personal office. Jackpot.

I’m afraid my rapid pulse is going to give me away, so I pull my arms out of his grasp and pretend to rub the sore spots.

“Lock her inside,” Simon suggests and pushes the door open. “You don’t have any windows or vents, and we can post a man in the hallway to make sure she doesn’t sneak out.”

Grant grunts his agreement. “It isn’t ideal, but there’s not much damage she can do in there.” He turns to me with an expression that’s difficult to read. Determined and professional, yes, but also pained. “We talked about this, Pen. You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember? Head down, nose clean. There are people here who would like to see you—”

He shakes his head, cutting his own words short. He finishes instead with, “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I can’t have you wandering around the building. Not until I know what you’re up to.”

“I can’t believe you think me capable of such deception,” I say, playing up the role of wounded wife. It’s not a stretch. My profile has been nothing but low for months—and it hasn’t been an easy thing to maintain. A little credit would be nice. “After all we’ve been through together.”

He’s not fooled for a second. “And I can’t believe you’d use Jordan’s chemical again. You should have known I’d recognize it.” I had known; that was part of the plan. Thankfully, all the late nights and overworked hours have thrown my husband off his game—he doesn’t yet realize I wanted to be caught. “Now get in there. We’ll deal with this later.”

He gently but firmly nudges me inside his office, offering a curt command to Simon before slamming the door and turning the key.

I hold my breath and count to ten before I look around, fearful this might be too good to be true—or perhaps Grant is toying with me, coming out on top in our endless game of cat-and-mouse. But as I turn to face those four white walls—Grant’s home away from home, the place where he’s leading an investigation that somehow pinpoints his wife as the Peep-Toe Prowler—the heady realization sinks in.

I did it. I’m in.

I guess infiltrating the FBI isn’t so hard after all.